


She laughs like God, her mind's like a diamond

by towardsmorning



Series: Perspectives [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Asexual Character, Drug Use, Gen, Homophobia, Pre-Femslash, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towardsmorning/pseuds/towardsmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Sherlock Holmes is eight years old, she burns three dresses."</p><p>Sherlock Holmes grows up, encounters Joan Watson, discovers the frailty of genius and meets her match, in that order. (Pre-canon through The Great Game)</p>
            </blockquote>





	She laughs like God, her mind's like a diamond

**Author's Note:**

> So this piece of self-indulgence is partly my fault, and partly arestlesswind @ Tumblr's fault. They egged me on, so I give them the dubious honor of having it dedicated to them.
> 
> After I finished 'When my heart meets my mind', I realised I had fallen thoroughly in love with that lady Sherlock Holmes and desperately wanted to write more of her. Apparently, that means 10,000 words or so more. However, as before, some of this is essentially me holding a lens up to pre-existing canon rather than writing it wholesale, per se. I can't take any credit for the dialogue or situations taken from canon, naturally.

When Sherlock Holmes is eight years old, she burns three dresses. Ostensibly this is an experiment to measure how quickly different fabrics burn- wool, cotton, polyester. If she were being more honest she would say that they irritated her, were entirely lacking in practicality and that getting rid of them was just a good idea in general. (Not that this stops her from carefully taking note of the wool burning slowly, smouldering, the cotton catching alight energetically, the polyester melting.)

It's Mycroft who finds her in the garden, making neat notes with Mummy's fountain pen onto the back of a brown envelope, and Sherlock glances up in time to see his mouth purse just slightly in the way it does when he's trying to stop himself from commenting. So when he says, "Mummy will know you've taken her things," Sherlock knows it isn't what he _wants_ to say.

"I'll put it back", she responds, even though she hates stating the obvious.

"And what do you intend to do with the rest?"

She shrugs. It's hardly as though Mummy is likely to miss that three dresses are gone. Why bother to hide it? One last penstroke and she replaces the cap, standing up. There is mud on her kneecaps. She doesn't brush it off, and neatly sidesteps Mycroft when he moves to do so, petulant.

Mummy does shout at her later, but thinks she threw them away. It's disappointing. Sherlock would have liked Mummy to at least know they hadn't been _wasted_ , and she glares at Mycroft for a whole week once she realises he must have cleaned them away on her behalf.

*

Sherlock did not know Carl Powers personally, only of him. In her multiple attempts to make the authorities see reason with regards to his death, she realises that they don't understand this simple fact. Their sympathetic glances and gentle manner make it clear they think she is traumatised by the death of what they imagine to be her friend; the chorus of 'poor dear' is sometimes spoken, sometimes not, but always present.

In the end, she simply gives up, seething internally. A part of her never really stops being irritated about it, never loses the awareness that it is intolerably difficult to make people see what is self-evident. Nor does she ever lose the distaste for seemingly inevitable condescension and diminutives. Thankfully, the latter proves easier to deal with than the former.

"I wish you wouldn't be so strident, Sherlock," Mummy says more times than Sherlock can count in the years to come, "it's most unattractive."

*

School is boring. It's a girls' school, supposedly one of the best, though Sherlock certainly doesn't see what it could possibly have done to earn the honour. It is also a boarding school, though home is only twenty miles away so it makes little practical difference. Mummy insists she goes home for weekends at least, to Sherlock's irritation. She is fifteen, bored, and would love to spend all of her time in the library but since it's the only place students are allowed to stay inside during break and lunch that's not really an option. Too crowded. Instead she finds a staircase they store chairs under and secretes herself at the back, her head bowed and uniform dark enough that she doesn't catch the eye of any rare person who walks past.

Normally she doesn't, anyway. Today she glances up to find a girl she recognises from her History class staring openly at her. It's clear the other girl has been there for quite some time, and Sherlock returns to her reading after a cursory glance.

"That's rude, you know."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, because it is.

"Why are you sitting there?"

"Why are you _standing_ there?" she retorts, flicking a page. She knows without asking, naturally; the girl spends most of their History lessons staring at her, and there's a flush on her cheeks, visible even under the terribly-applied and overdone makeup.

"No reason."

"I'm not going to have sex with you," is her flat response, hoping the bluntness is enough to make the other go away. She is disappointed when she glances up and sees her companion still stood there, stock still and face white as paper. "That was your cue to _leave_."

"What do y-"

"I'm trying to read."

The girl flounders for a second, then sniffs and folds her arms. The effect is the exact opposite of imposing, and Sherlock smiles in thin amusement. "Dyke," she spits, and Sherlock rolls her eyes.

"I turned you down so I'm a-"

"Like I'd ever want to have sex with you. _Dyke,_ " she repeats as she flounces off, vehemence making up for repetition. It's plain that she's on the defensive, and no doubt will have spread her version of the story all around the school by the end of the day, fearful that Sherlock will pre-empt her.

When she finally goes back to the dorm, silent stares and a wide berth prove her right.

Sherlock retains her reputation as the school lesbian her entire time there and finds the solitude it brings useful. When three girls decide to gang up on her to "teach her a lesson", apparently feeling it can somehow be beaten out of her, she discovers that observation is a useful skill when fighting and hits them all _precisely_ where it hurts. Nobody tries again, and she doesn't even get in trouble. (That time, anyway.)

*

For a while she wonders if she _is_ a lesbian, if simply because men hold precisely no attraction. Of course, women don't either, but she hated all her female classmates so it was difficult to be objective. People definitely assumed she was, saw the lack of make-up, short hair, and later on in life suits and drew amusingly feeble conclusions. At seventeen she watches pornography for the first time to check and has to take a shower before her skin stops crawling in response

Not a lesbian, then. Probably for the best; relationships would very much not be her area.

*

Mother is holding a tube of lipstick with the type of grim expression Sherlock associates with doctors informing loved ones that somebody has died. She smiles thinly at the image, does not think the smile betrays any of the amusement she feels. "No."

"Sherlock," Julia Holmes says warningly, "don't be difficult."

 _Difficult._ The word seems to be some sort of catch all. Everything Sherlock does is _difficult_ , at least when the criticism is coming from people who consider themselves to have good manners. Her eyes roll almost without instruction and her mother's mouth tightens.

"No."

"Sherlock."

"Repeating my name won't get you anywhere, mother."

"Honestly, it's no wonder you haven't found a suitor yet."

Sherlock mentally makes note of the fact that apparently people do in fact still use the word _suitor._ Though no doubt Mummy numbers among very few peers; Sherlock is almost certain it's an affectation. She has so many of those, all clumsy, just a little too eager. It's the natural side effect of Holmes not being _quite_ as old a name as it could be, Sherlock supposes.

When Sherlock doesn't reply, her mother straightens. "Fine. Stay in your room all evening, then; but don't you dare come down while company is here looking like _that._ "

Sherlock glances down at her slightly-too-large suit (she hasn't had time to go to the tailor's yet; refuses to wear women's suits, they're so _fussy_ ), smiles sweetly and watches the narrow suspicion in her mother's eyes sharpen to a fine point. Her mother may not much resemble the daughter, but her observational skills are far from useless. "Of course not. I understand. I'm sure I can find something more feminine on my own, don't fret."

The dress she finds hung in her childhood closet is three sizes too small and doesn't cover much at all, something her mother takes obvious objection to, but it is a dress and her mother doesn't seem to be able to formulate said objection when Sherlock stalks into the room later. One of her mother's friends makes a remark about her legs and she asks him if his affair is going well, obvious from the cologne he wears and the handkerchief he carries. She knows the man's wife by sight, knows she'd never gift him with either and the man certainly wouldn't buy _himself_ such things, and they cost far too much to be family tokens.

In retrospect, Sherlock considers this event and the ensuing argument to have been Mummy's breaking point. She keeps the memory quite fondly.

*

University proves better than school. It becomes easier to find solitude and her mother no longer demands that she comes home for holidays, though Mycroft insists on 'dropping by' every month or so. Sherlock begins to retaliate by deducing things about his job she isn't allowed to know whenever he does so, but he refuses to be deterred.

"Do make sure you take care of yourself, Sherlock?" he asks at the end of each visit, raised eyebrow looking doubtful. Her response varies, but most often involves shutting the door in his face. This never stops him asking, and once or twice, as he begins to rapidly ascend in the ranks of government, Sherlock notices that she has a trail on the rare occasions she bothers leaving campus. It's laughably easy to lose them, but the message has been received.

It's all so irritating. Her patience for Mycroft has never been abundant, but blatant displays of power erode it to very little indeed. Their meetings grow a little colder each time, and her insults a little sharper.

She meets Sebastian in one of her lectures after one such meeting and immediately ignores him as thoroughly as she ignores all her peers, mind still turning over the problem of invasive siblings and uninterested in anything else. This does not change when he attempts to strike up conversation with her for the first time. The second time, all of twenty minutes later, she curtly informs him that if he's attempting to hide the fact that he pays somebody to write all his papers, he's doing a piss poor job of it. He looks taken aback for perhaps five seconds, and then gives her the type of smile she believes would be called 'sleazy'.

"Not really. That was what I wanted to talk to you about, actually."

*

The class they share is painfully dull and having to write twice as many papers for it is a tedious prospect, but Sebastian pays her enough to buy half a laboratory's worth of dubiously acquired chemicals and doesn't let her constant, invasive deductions deter him from making semi-intelligent conversation. He also manages to avoid saying anything about Sherlock's appearance, apparent lack of interest in men and 'bitchy attitude', as one of her roommates had put it, which puts him head and shoulders above every man she knows bar her brother.

(Mycroft simply sighs at any related topic and lets it be known that whatever _his_ opinion on the matter may be, an _appearance_ to others can prove useful. Sherlock does not simply disdain her brother as she does others; she hates him.)

Over the next few months she finds herself spending time with him in a way that would probably imply they were friends if she were anyone else. People talk. She ignores them; he seems to find it amusing. It works well enough, and leads her to the discovery that a person to act as a sounding board can be a valuable asset indeed. Her productivity tends to improve when talking aloud provides a response, even if the response itself isn't particularly useful.

When Seb gets a girlfriend it goes to hell, of course. Sherlock grows irritated enough at his blowing off plans that she makes some less than complimentary remarks in the other woman's presence, rounding off with a spectacularly inappropriate question regarding her sex life. Once the woman has stormed off in an indignant flurry of skirts and hair, heels striking the floor in a way that suggests she's imagining Sherlock's head underneath them, Sebastian turns a glare on her. It's almost amusing in how ineffectual it is, and Sherlock rolls her eyes in return. He storms off. By the next day, the two have broken up; apparently the woman doesn't approve of the company he keeps. A week later, when it becomes clear to her that Sebastian has stopped keeping said company, they're back together.

It's a shame, really. The money was useful. Mycroft makes disapproving noises and seems to want for her to find a replacement. Refusing feels spiteful, and so she refuses.

*

The cocaine starts in her final year. There is a purpose to it, but not one she can define- all she knows is that the novelty of what passes for freedom has worn off, the novelty of people who could almost pass for intelligent is long gone, and that she has nothing to replace it with. Cocaine isn't exactly interesting so much as it is something which removes her capacity for boredom, and she tells herself that it's just a stop-gap until she finds something that can actually challenge her.

The whispers about her deductive capabilities turn into mutters about 'crack whores', because apparently her mind is nowhere near as fascinating to these people as her ability to purchase easily acquired drugs while being female is. They get louder when she points out to one person that she doesn't actually use _crack_ cocaine, and from then on she simply ignores them as usual.

Against all her own expectations, Sherlock Holmes does indeed graduate university. With a half-decent degree, something even more unexpected given her lax attendance and tendency to ignore examination dates. Mycroft comes by on the day this miraculous event occurs to find her high and uninterested in any congratulations; his shock, the awareness that he didn't know, is the sweetest thing. She so rarely manages that.

*

She had originally intended to stop the drugs after she graduated, but somehow that never quite happens. It becomes apparent that her personality is one that skews towards addiction, and it almost becomes a matter of pride to prove that it does not impair her ability to function. If she can't leave it behind, she'll simply prove that she doesn't need to do so anyway.

Sherlock ends up being arrested twice for her habit, in the end. Both times Mycroft intervenes, and both times she detests him for it and doesn't hesitate to let him know. The second time, on her way out of the station, head more or less clear, she makes an offhand remark to a detective she recognises- he had been there when they dragged her in, still high, she thinks. It's acerbic, about a case she most certainly isn't supposed to know anything about and intended to grate. The crash that comes after a high always makes her petulant, not that she'd ever be willing to admit it using that kind of language.

The man stares agape at her for nearly ten seconds before demanding to know "who the hell told her about that". He doesn't interrupt as she exasperatedly outlines her train of thought, the points of data that she had picked up from her time in the station and the neat lines of logic she had strung them along, simply looks at her with consideration. He attempts to refute her claims, however weakly. Before she knows it she's laid the entire case in front of him, not bothering to hide her irritation at being questioned this way.

He, meanwhile, looks thoughtful.

She goes back to her tiny flat with a number in her pocket and an ultimatum.

*

Her withdrawal is terrible.

Mycroft comes by after two weeks. Sherlock never knows if he discovered what she was doing- _trying_ to do, at least- or if he was simply investigating her recent lack of activity. There's a period of roughly fifteen minutes which she devotes to insulting, shouting at, and finally screaming at him before he so much as says a word, and then he heaves a sigh and watches her collapse onto the room's only chair.

He puts his hand briefly on her shoulder, wordless, before going to make tea. The surprise of it stops her from commenting in return, which was quite possibly the point. Sherlock can't recall the last time they actually touched, she realises, and Mycroft never does anything without purpose.

"You don't need to do this here," he insists later over her sullen silence, his own tea stone cold and undrunk.

"Piss off," she manages, on her third cup by this point and squinting through the most godawful headache she can recall ever having.

"I mean it," Mycroft presses, voice betraying just the slightest pleading tone- _probably on purpose, the wanker_ she thinks. "This is... less than ideal."

The stabbing pain in her head is getting worse by the second, and her light keeps flickering in the most irritating way; the atmosphere in her tiny, dim flat has screeched past claustrophobia and into the realm of being compared to a prison cell. A single muscle in her cheek is starting to develop a twitch. Sherlock distantly acknowledges all these things for a minute.

_Damn it._

It is the first time he talks her into accepting his help with anything of actual importance willingly.

Needless to say, they don't talk about it.

*

The cases she is forwarded following her successful detox provide more distraction than Sherlock had expected. They rarely stretch her, can be laughably easy at times, but even so there's enough danger and excitement in them to make up for any lack of intellectual challenge. Adrenaline is just another drug, after all.

Anderson takes an instant dislike to her after she shows him up on her first case working with him by proving every assumption he had made about a corpse wrong. And, admittedly, by then pointing his own failings out in front of everyone; she hears a few catcalls later and concludes that it seems to be a matter of male pride. Donovan, the other main staple at Lestrade's crime scenes, seems more willing to watch and wait at first. Sherlock ignores her, except to point out the numerous erroneous conclusions she inevitably reaches.

"Why do you do this?" she asks Sherlock one day, peering down in thinly-disguised suspicion as Sherlock examines a murder victim's fingernails. _Soil's sandy, he grasped at the ground, for some time- slow death then-_

"Boredom," she responds absently, too busy thinking about things she actually cares about to be fully sarcastic.

"What, nothing on telly so you go out and poke around for murders?"

"Not all of us have saviour complexes, Donovan," she retorts, because Sally Donovan is so obviously on the force because of grand moral ideas about right and wrong that it's painful to watch.

"You _enjoy_ it."

"Obviously, or I wouldn't bother. Are you finished interrogating me? You have a job to do, don't you? They must pay you for _something._ "

"Freak," she spits, stalking off to go talk to Lestrade. Something in her tone had been almost disappointed, Sherlock notes abstractly as she straightens up, finished.

Nine hours later, they have their man. Easy. Dull. Sherlock can't help but be annoyed at the inadequate challenge, inadequate distraction, inadequate everything, face twisting into a scowl. She hears Anderson's remark of 'bitch' as she moves off. Ignores it without particularly thinking anything of it.

The "Oi," she hears Sally intone, automatic and sharp, is more unexpected. Sherlock turns back to see the other woman looking almost embarrassed, Anderson's face screaming _you're sticking up for her now?_ , and understands the disappointment from earlier. Donovan wants an ally, presumably knows plenty about male pride herself. Possibly admires Sherlock's gall, walking onto crime scenes and demanding respect without the tedious routine of earning it, though no doubt any admission of that admiration would need to be dragged out of her under threat of torture.

Sherlock doesn't particularly care about any of that, something which comes of not caring about anybody else full stop, but for lack of any other way to react and aware that she should probably do something, nods. Donovan catches her eye and then looks away, still embarrassed- she shouts out an order to the stragglers to hide the fact, turning away brusquely. Sherlock leaves the scene without further comment.

*

Molly, she meets quite soon after this. Initially Sherlock entertains the possibility of gaining what she needs without particularly having to interact with anybody to get it, but when it becomes apparent that this isn't a realistic idea, she takes stock of her options. Molly Hooper, socially awkward, living alone, eager to please, complete doormat, is the most obvious choice of engineered ally. When she turns out to actually be competent at her job on top of all that, Sherlock introduces herself with what she's found to be a charming smile and worms her way into the lab. Molly flushes and looks confused for most of it. By the time Sherlock's been there half an hour she seems to have developed some sort of crush, which is another point in her favour. Romance makes people easier to manipulate. To cement it, Sherlock makes an offhand deduction about the fact that she'd had trouble getting into work on time that morning- _mud on her trousers from running where it's rained today, parting askew, make-up clearly half finished, she didn't dare take time out to go fix it, a million other details she clearly thinks are hidden_ \- and sees Molly's acceptance of her as a professional settle into place underneath the pure shock at Sherlock's accuracy.

The woman hovers, clearly not willing to leave Sherlock alone in a place she technically isn't supposed to be. Since she seems equally unwilling to raise any actual objections as Sherlock studies a corpse intently, this isn't any particular problem.

"So what do you actually do, then?" Molly asks after a while, hands fluttering. Sherlock manages to restrain herself from rolling her eyes with some effort and pointedly does not look up.

"Consulting detective," she says, voice clipped and designed to deter any question such as, _oh, how does that work?_

"So you're police," she gets back instead, tone nervous. Ah, she wants to think that this is official enough that it won't get her in trouble. Sherlock makes no response and lets her take that as she wishes.

After a moment's pause in which she examines the corpse dubiously, Sherlock straightens up and pulls her hand back. Almost immediately Molly grabs her wrist; Sherlock turns to glare and watches the other woman shrink back. The flash of irritation must show in her face, because Molly immediately falls over herself to apologise.

"I need to check the rate bruising after death."

"I... is it for a case? I mean-"

"Yes," Sherlock responds shortly, raising her arm again.

"Then I guess- if it's important-"

Sherlock slaps the man across the cheek. Molly doesn't wince, simply looks around nervously to see if anyone saw. Interesting. No problem with Sherlock hitting corpses, only with the idea that letting her do so might get Molly fired. No real problem with the lack of confirmation about the police, either. Molly is looking more and more useful by the second, her inane chatter aside.

Once Sherlock has her results, she turns to go. Molly makes an insipid comment about seeing her around some time, to which Sherlock doesn't respond. Not because they won't, since Sherlock is likely to have need of the morgue within the next week, but because otherwise Molly might take it as some sort of invitation.

*

Sherlock settles into a routine. Crime scenes. Morgue. Experiments in the poky flat she refuses to call home, helped by an all-too-eager Molly.

She considers that she'd quite like somewhere with enough room to actually move around in with all the clutter that's built up over the past few years, but money is irregular and a flat share supremely unlikely.

"I'd be a difficult woman to room with," is all she deigns to say after ill-advisedly broaching the topic with a doctor in the morgue. Stamford, who seems to view her somewhere between an amusing novelty and a local attraction, no doubt because he barely ever has to deal with her.

*

The moment in which Joan Watson steps into the lab is completely ordinary.

Later, nothing will particularly mark it out in Sherlock's mind amongst everything else except her ability to retroactively apply importance to it, something which she normally avoids but here will struggle to not find appropriate.

Even when Sherlock looks up to observe her- _tan lines, posture, utilitarian haircut, pragmatic clothing, 'my day', cane, and the woman must realise that limp is psychosomatic, **surely**_ \- nothing particularly sticks in her mind beyond the fact that she's likely to be capable of putting up with Sherlock for at least a while. She's not looking for a friend, that much is clear, and she'll be used to trouble enough to put up with everything. No doubt they'll eventually find a breaking point and one or the other will move on, but hopefully Joan's will prove to be later rather than sooner. _A woman in the army,_ Sherlock thinks, _she wouldn't have made it through that without being able to cope with plenty._

Molly interrupts with coffee and Sherlock considers her next words as she takes it, dismisses Molly with a wave of her hand and an automatic remark that doesn't particularly register. The whole thing goes perfectly, and at the end of it, Joan has clearly made up her mind to see it through, if only through a stubborn curious streak Sherlock can see writ large across her face.

And she takes the whole affair with a bemused but ultimately intrigued air, which bodes well. It's better that than irritation, anyway.

*

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asks later with absolutely no doubt as to what the answer will be.

"Oh, god yes," comes the reply, sure enough, and Joan looks almost _relieved_ to be saying it. There's very little about her which seems to Sherlock to be anything but ordinary yet the way her eyes light up at that makes her almost think twice. Sherlock wonders just how bored Joan Watson has been lately, and if she was interested in sympathy she thinks that she'd feel some.

In the cab over, they volley back and forth, Joan fishing for information. It's mildly amusing to watch the comprehension spread over Joan's face as Sherlock reels off facts that she'd known since Joan handed her that phone, and infinitely satisfying. Sherlock may not care what people think of _her,_ but she never pretends to be indifferent to their opinion of her work, for all that the gap between those things seems non-existent at times.

The first surprise comes from Joan's reaction.

"That was... amazing."

"You think so?" The words are out of Sherlock's mouth before she really thinks about them, and the surprise in them is genuine.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was _quite_... extraordinary."

"That's... not what people normally say," says Sherlock after a moment, abruptly shocked by just how pleased she feels at the words.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off. Sometimes the word 'bitch' is included, if they're feeling creative."

The smile Joan shoots her is part enthralled and part wry. "Hm, well. I know what that feels like."

Surprise number two. The unassuming woman seated next to her is proving more of a challenge than Sherlock had anticipated, and to her shock, the feeling is far from unwelcome.

*

Genius needs an audience.

Sherlock has always liked to think of herself as the exception to this rule, but the sight of herself reflected in the wide, admiring eyes of Joan Watson forces her to admit that this may not be accurate.

"It's brilliant," Joan gushes, mouth quirking up in a half-formed smile.

It feels... pleasant. Sherlock has no idea what to do with that fact, but has no intention whatsoever of looking a gift horse in the mouth.

*

"You and your date," Angelo says, and Sherlock listens to Joan's instinctive squawk of protest without particularly acknowledging it.

"I'm not her _date_ ," she finishes eventually, though by this stage she sounds resigned to not being listened to. Sherlock's mouth twitches at the indignation.

"You may as well eat, we have a long wait." There's silence for a while, Sherlock's eyes focused on the road opposite, mind rotating through a dozen possibilities and discarding all of them impatiently. Then Joan speaks again, voice considered and unhurried.

"People don't have arch enemies," she begins, and after a moment Sherlock realises that they're apparently continuing the discussion about Mycroft.

"I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen."

"Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull," she says, though privately she wouldn't particularly call her feud with Mycroft all that interesting either. But Joan seems curiously insistent on this point.

"So who did I meet?"

Now that Sherlock isn't going to answer, not yet. There's no reason for her to be as averse to the concept as she finds herself, not really, but something about the fact that Mycroft's overbearing _worry_ has captured the attention of her flatmate so quickly is irritating to her. This isn't why she brought Joan along, and Mycroft can bloody well stay out of it until she says so. For once in his overbearing existence. "What do real people have then?" she asks in lieu of anything else to say, already sure of the answer.

"Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don’t like... boyfriends, girlfriends," replies Joan, faintly unsure, looking at Sherlock like she's some kind of puzzle. Oddly flattering, but entirely unnecessary.

"Dull," she says promptly, and means it.

"You don't have a boyfriend then," and the way it's a statement rather than a question catches Sherlock's attention. _She's not expecting a yes._

"Boyfriend, no, not really my area."

"Oh right," says Joan, and Sherlock represses a sigh at the sound of what Joan probably thinks is her own understanding. _Here we go._ "Do you have a- girlfriend? Which is fine, by the way-"

"I know it's fine."

"So you've got a girlfriend, then," is another statement, not a question. Sherlock feels a sudden suspicion welling up and narrows her eyes.

"No."

"Right. OK. You’re unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good."

_Good?_

This really isn't Sherlock's strongest point. She takes a moment to claw around in her brain for some kind of socially acceptable response, a courtesy with which she wouldn't normally bother but this is somebody who she's going to have to live with and even Sherlock doesn't want to get her hackles up in the first twenty four hours. Leave that for after forty eight, at least.

"Joan, er- I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any-"

" _No,_ " says Joan hurriedly, and Sherlock's relief at her genuine denial is immense. "I’m not asking. No. I’m just saying- it’s all fine."

"Good. ...Thank you."

Joan looks at her for a moment longer, seems about to say something and then changes her mind. Sherlock herself resumes staring out the window, continues to turn over possibilities, but can't prevent a portion of her mind from considering, instead, Joan Watson. _It's all fine._ Very much not the typical reaction. Even Mrs. Hudson's response to such things tends to be to flap and tell her _Now now dear, give it some time, you're very pretty in your own way you know, you mustn't put yourself down like that._ Perhaps Joan herself is simply accustomed to assumptions and has made a determined effort not to make too many of her own. A woman in the army, uninterested in her appearance by the looks of things so far- no doubt heterosexual, though, by her panicked response. Yes, that makes sense.

Hopefully Joan's presence will stop any inquiries about such matters, at least for a few weeks. Letting people draw their own conclusions can be advantageous.

*

When all is said and done, and Joan has left her cane behind, Sherlock comes to the conclusion she quite likes the other woman. Ordinary, of course, but just a shade less ordinary than most. Any woman with a talent for exploiting the benefits of adrenaline like that is one worth keeping around.

*  
Joan Watson slips out of her mind almost entirely in the ensuing chaos. The moment Sherlock steps down to greet the cabbie everything becomes narrowed, focused, _about_ the game that's being played and how wonderfully entertaining it all is. The sudden dawning realization is an almost tangibly delicious thing, quick-moving and abrupt and gorgeously clear. Of course she follows him. She couldn't ever do anything else.

And then there's the simplest chess match in the world laid out in front of her, just one move each, with the added bonus that at the end of it one king dies. Victory will be absolute and there won't be any rematches. There's no room in her mind for anything but that once that becomes clear, and so when the gunshot comes and leaves her competitor bleeding out on the floor Sherlock can't think who, what, why it was done, only that they _got in the damn way_.

It isn't until she's talking to Lestrade outside, shrugging off some irritating cooing woman and an equally irritating blanket that she catches sight of her flatmate and realises.

"You're looking for a man, probably with a history of military service and... nerves of steel-"

Joan is absently looking away when Sherlock catches sight of her and it's the least innocent gesture in the world. That alone would have told her enough.

"What?" Lestrade makes to follow her gaze and she snaps out a response to drag his eyes back to her.

"Exactly what I said. A man, in the army, used to violence. Probably quite large."

He's looking at her suspiciously. He's not quite _that_ much of an idiot that he won't look at the gunshot wound and have it analysed, see that it's clearly from somebody not exactly over-endowed in the height department, but perhaps her history of proving his assumptions wrong will be enough. And perhaps his own assumptions will play a part, too. "Yes, _large._ Now if you'll excuse me?"

"Hang on-"

"Oh, what now? I'm in shock, look, I've got a blanket," she snaps, striding off already. He lets her go after a moment and Sherlock turns her attention onto to Joan.

Joan, who just shot somebody for the sake of a woman she's known for a period that is easily measured in hours. Joan, who is wearing a ridiculous jumper and has frankly absurd puppy-dog eyes and whose hand didn't quake for a moment when she shot a man, who is stood watching the officers go about their business with a complete lack of concern.

"Sergeant Donovan was just explaining everything. Two pills. It's a dreadful business, isn't it? Just dreadful," Joan says, which would probably be a more convincing impression of the typical shocked female onlooker if it weren't said with such marvellous pragmatism.

"Good shot," Sherlock murmurs, smiling slightly. To her credit Joan rallies admirably well.

"Yes, yes, must have been from that window."

"You'd know. Need to get the powder burns out of your hands. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this but let's avoid the court case," she counters, before narrowing her eyes. "Are you all right?" It's not that Joan seems affected per se, merely unsettled, perhaps holding herself a little closer and tighter than normal.

"Yes, of course I'm all right."

"Well you have just killed a man."

"Yes, I-" Joan pauses, and the unsettled look passes into a wry smile. "Yes, that's true. But," she says, smile now a full on grin, "he wasn't a very nice man."

"No... no, he wasn't really, was he?" The logic makes Sherlock smile as well, pleased. There had been a moment in which she'd expected Joan to regret it, expected some hideous guilt to arise, pointless and wasteful. At least Joan had a sense of perspective about the thing.

"No, frankly, and bloody awful cabbie."

"That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should've seen the route he took us to get here."

Joan laughs, and Sherlock says casually, "And you needn't bother about the court issue, in fact. Just told Lestrade it was a male shooter- he'll be on the wrong track entirely."

"And I suppose that was on purpose," says Joan with a look that suggests she knows that it wasn't. When Sherlock doesn't respond, walking off ahead of her, Joan laughs again. "Oh, damn it, you're making me laugh, we can't giggle at a crime scene- sorry, sorry," she adds to a passing officer before hurrying to catch up. "Well that's two mistakes of gender you've made now, isn't it? Must run in my family."

"There's always something," Sherlock grumbles, but before she knows it she's smiling again. Joan's smiling back, yet there's an edge to it now.

"You were gonna take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Of course I wasn't," Sherlock lies. "Biding my time. Knew you'd come."

"No you didn't."

Yet Joan doesn't seem upset by this, isn't staring at Sherlock with eyes that say _freak._ Sherlock wonders for a moment whether Joan would have been tempted as well- Joan, who came back from Afghanistan with a limp that only something to chase could cure. Just a moment, and then it passes.

"Dinner?"

"Starving," replies Joan after another moment's consideration.

Of course, then bloody Mycroft has to show up and get in the way, but all things considered, Sherlock counts this case as a success.

*

They settle in at 221b with a speed Sherlock wouldn't have thought possible. Joan complains on a regular basis that Sherlock's list of flaws as a roommate had been woefully inadequate, but makes no move to find a new place to live, so they clearly don't concern her very much. Sherlock takes this as permission to keep doing them.

Living with another person is less hassle than she had expected. Joan is good about both keeping her own things to herself and not disturbing Sherlock's, removing the need for Sherlock to do the same. Mrs. Hudson complains on a regular basis about the mess but continues to insist that she isn't their housekeeper and thankfully doesn't make any attempts to "tidy up". About the worst thing that happens is that Joan drags her out to help shop once every now and again, and sometimes attempts (and fails) to make her go on her own.

"Maybe if you bothered there'd be enough food in the house for once and you'd stop looking like a starved cat," Joan says waspishly one day after Sherlock pointedly ignores three hints and one plea, reclining on the sofa and wishing she'd never given up smoking.

"Don't be dramatic, Joan, I'm very far from starving. Food is boring, you can't be surprised I have better things to do than... shop." She spits the word out and wonders who the hell invented the concept.

"A _starved cat,_ " Joan insists.

"Do you take exception to my appearance?" Of course, most people did, one way or the other. Goodness knows Sherlock _still_ has to put up with her mother bleating about her figure, or lack of it. Once there had even been mention of surgery, she recalls with vague disgust.

"I take exception to having to worry that one long illness will wipe you out. Or that you're going to go without food for too long and faint, or something."

Propping herself up on her elbows, Sherlock peers at Joan for several seconds. When the other woman begins to fidget, she cuts in. "Hm. You mean that. Interesting."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Why wouldn't I mean it?"

Sherlock doesn't respond, but privately adds another notch onto the growing list of reasons to afford Joan some respect and flops back onto the sofa with a less-than-annoyed sigh.

*

The case with Sebastian comes two months afterwards.

"My _friend_ ," she emphasises when she introduces Joan, twitches just the slightest bit when it's corrected to colleague. Sebastian looks amused and Sherlock wonders when, precisely, she started wanting to punch his smug face in. He's as sleazy as ever and far more judgemental, and seems to have progressed to finding her an amusing oddity who won't object to such a label.

They weren't ever friends in any meaningful sense, but it rankles anyway. Other people's memories are so skewed, she thinks, they tell them what the person wants to be told. The condescension rankles just as much. She retaliates- "I was chatting with your secretary", a lie he must know as one if he recalls anything about her- and smiles when he looks uncomfortable.

Joan doesn't look quite so amused.

"So you knew Sebastian, then," she starts when they're in the cab.

"Obviously."

"Well?"

"He wasn't my ex," she says, and to her credit Joan doesn't even blink. It had been obvious what her conclusion had been. Any woman who showed up to a meeting with a man full of barbed insults would get the same, she's sure. No doubt Joan has embellished their association in her mind impressively.

"So I wasn't some kind of 'look, I found a new one' fake girlfriend. That's good."

"Married to my work," Sherlock reminds her.

"And how long's that been going on? I mean, you must have-"

"No."

"Okay, okay," Joan says, hands up in a placating gesture. "I get it. Not your area, never will be. Makes sense, really."

"What?"

"You, in a relationship?" She laughs, and after a moment, Sherlock smirks back. "Besides, even if you did, you'd have better taste than that. If he wasn't your ex, though, why was he so..."

"Pissed off? Goodness knows."

Joan looks unwilling to accept that answer, but the cab stops and Sherlock makes a swift exit, part of her deeply satisfied but unsure of why, except that the repetition of her words from their first case has caused it.

_It's all fine._

*

Joan, of course, doesn't share her aversion.

She's met some man at the clinic she insists on working at, apparently. Sherlock has little idea why she bothers, and next to no idea why on Earth this man apparently warrants such attention.

"It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun..."

"That's what I was suggesting," Sherlock responds immediately. She does understand the distinction, whatever Joan thinks, but she doesn't understand why on Earth fun-on-a-date should somehow supersede fun-on-a-case.

"No, it wasn't. At least, I hope not."

A thought finds its way to the forefront of Sherlock's mind: _you aren't enough for her._ It disturbs her more than it ought to, and she pushes it away immediately as trite, sentimental nonsense, but the unease doesn't quite leave. She recalls Joan correcting 'friend' to 'colleague', and that even a friend isn't as much as a husband, and frowns to herself a little.

Joan accepts the offer of circus tickets with an amusing lack of suspicion.

*

"-trying to get off with Sam!"

Sherlock wonders if perhaps the man overhearing that particular outburst on Joan's behalf will prove embarrassing enough that he'll leave. Unfortunately, this doesn't prove to be the case.

Then she wonders later if, perhaps, the scuffle that breaks out will scare him off. Again this proves to be entirely incorrect. Indeed, he almost seems to find it _exciting_ , a view which Sherlock fully understands but also entirely loathes seeing in somebody who _gets in the way._

She groans quietly. _Men._

*

"How would you describe me, Joan? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Late?"

Good. If she's ready to be sarcastic, then the situation can't possibly be that bad.

It's simple, really- she keeps talking, keeps her voice echoing around for the sake of distraction while she slips in and out of the shadows, makes them deeper and more concealing when she kicks the fire over. The manner in which Sam is being held proves both a blessing and a curse; it simultaneously provides a window of opportunity in which she can save him and a time limit. Still, she doesn't think much of it as she goes to untie the gag around his mouth.

The next moment she feels a scarf fall over her neck and has a moment in which to think _fell for the same trick again_ disgustedly before she finds herself jerked back. Blood pounds in her ears as she pulls at the scarf, at his hands, wherever she can reach, desperately glancing over as best she can at the ticking time-bomb of a contraption, still trained on Sam. Not for the first time in her life Sherlock finds herself wishing for a little more height, a little more muscle.

Until suddenly the time-bomb metaphorically stops ticking and Sherlock feels the man behind her stiffen. She draws in an enormous lungful of air and notes distantly that this is the second time Joan Watson has killed somebody for her, unintentional or not. No doubt people would generally consider her inappropriate for finding that fact so extraordinary, in its own way even quite exquisite, but she does so anyway, taking a moment to feel that gratitude before turning her attention to Sam.

"It's all right," she mutters, soothing nonsense as he shakes in her grip and tries to refrain from tears, gaze fixed on Joan. Sherlock's attention is caught by the blood on the other woman's face suddenly, glinting almost black in the dim light and far more worrying than this figure she's untying, but Joan's own gaze is steady and there's an almost wry quality to her smile.

"Next date won't be like this."

Sam laughs at that, helpless and hysterical. When Sherlock goes to help him stand the man pushes away and attempts to stagger over to where Joan's lying, hands fumbling at her knots despite Joan's protests; trying to play the hero, typical. It's tempting to leave him to his pride and wait until he simply realises that the after-effects of shock tend to leave one with less than ideal motor control, but then the blood on Joan's head makes its presence known again and Sherlock deigns to stalk over and bat his hands away with a sigh.

*

People talk, of course.

Even though Sam was somehow _not_ deterred by the debacle at the circus and after- not even by the awareness that his girlfriend stays considerably calmer under fire than he does, a breaking point for many men in Sherlock's experience- people simply seem to assume he's a cover, or a beard, or a misguided attempt at denial. Sherlock doesn't find this surprising, nor irritating beyond a general distaste for the general population's complete inability to observe the facts; Joan does not share this view.

"It's ridiculous."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees after a moment from where she's hunched over her chemistry set when Joan seems to expect an answer to the end of her rant. Joan herself is stood glowering at the kettle as it begins to boil, her entire body radiating pent-up irritation.

"I mean, what does sharing a flat have to do with shagging?"

"Then why does it bother you?"

Joan stares as though Sherlock has sprouted a second head. "What?"

"It's ridiculous, yes, we both know that. Yet it bothers you. Why?"

"Wh- Sherlock, I have a..." she trails off, not quite at the 'boyfriend' or 'partner' stage, but the meaning is clear.

"And since he's one of the only people you know who is perfectly content that we aren't 'shagging', I fail to see the problem. Beyond a general concern for the state of the human race in all its stupidity, that is," she adds after a moment in the interests of fairness.

"It doesn't bother you _at all_?"

"No. You know it doesn't."

"Yeah, but... it must get tiring, at least?"

Sherlock simply rolls her eyes and doesn't bother to reply. After a short pause, Joan comes over, stirring her tea with a shade more vehemence than is strictly necessary.

"Seems a bit ignorant, though," she continues, and takes Sherlock's wordless grunt as agreement. "I'd have thought two women could live together and not get all that."

"They don't think we're sleeping together because we share a flat. They think we're sleeping together because everyone thought I was a lesbian anyway and you're ex-army but still keep your hair short despite having no need any more. The jumpers might add to it," she says consideringly, and then notices the look on Joan's face. "What?"

"Still ignorant, Sherlock."

"But it's not because-"

"Not the point!"

"Then what, pray tell, is the point of this rant? Because I don't think it's me you need to convince."

"It really doesn't bother you at all."

Joan seems to find her lack of reaction disappointing, and Sherlock frowns slightly as she goes back to her work, mind ticking over in an attempt to consider _why_ before dismissing it as some unreasonable insecurity or other. No doubt Joan will adjust to it eventually.

*

The explosion that occurs several days later is marginally interesting- clearly not a gas leak, no matter what it looks like. Her brother's presence is infinitely less so; the pretence of sibling worry is soon replaced by the even worse attempt at ordering her around. Joan bursts in not long after he's sat down, interrupting what Sherlock had planned to be a very long and determined staring match with an enquiry after her well being. Sherlock takes a moment to realise that Joan must have heard about the 'accident' and assumed the worst.

"Oh, yeah, fine- gas leak," she says, fingers plucking at violin strings of their own accord. "I can't," she adds to Mycroft as an afterthought, and wills him to just piss off already.

"Can't?" Mycroft repeats, and the air of polite confusion he projects is frankly disgusting. It goes on, deflections and carefully placed hints and incredibly dull rhetoric about Sherlock serving the country or whatever it is that is supposed to stir some kind of long-disused sense of patriotism in her. _Hateful._

And then he one-ups her in front of Joan. Somehow that annoys her more than anything. Which is impressive, given just how intensely tired she is of her meddling, insufferable brother.

Then Joan says, "That wasn't very clever, was it," smirks at Mycroft's (utterly real, Sherlock notes) twitch of annoyance and suddenly Sherlock is struck by the thought that perhaps she should let Joan talk to Mycroft on her behalf more often. She's wonderful at it. Joan is, it seems, her ally in most everything these days.

She plays him out with enthusiasm, smiling broadly.

Of course, Joan apparently can't leave it there.

"Sibling rivalry," Joan says thoughtfully, "now we're getting somewhere."

 _No, we're not,_ Sherlock refrains from saying, if only because there would need to be an explanation behind it. Sherlock has no particular desire to discuss that feud with Joan now, possibly never will. If she's honest, she isn't even entirely sure she could. There are too many tiny, inconsequential things that only make sense as a part of the whole. Too many moments of Mycroft with just a shade of disapproval in his eyes, too many moments of Mycroft sucking up to their mother and smirking when Sherlock's refusal to do so sets her back a step, too many moments of Mycroft insinuating himself into her life with a kind of practised ease she can never stop resenting him for. The word _paternalistic_ springs to mind.

She recalls him suddenly, patiently explaining at six years old why she can't attend the same school as him, not even once he's left- _it's a boys' school, Sherlock, I doubt you'd even like it._

Thankfully, the phone rings, and she doesn't have to continue that train of thought.

*

When she picks the pink phone up, a shiver runs down her spine. It feels like a muted version of the anticipation she'd felt those months ago, pill making its way towards her mouth, and she is almost surprised to glance down at her hands and find them far steadier than they had been back then.

Joan is a presence at her back, out of sight but perfectly detectable nonetheless. Perhaps that explains it.

The phone beeps. Her spine tingles again, and then a third time when she recognises the location in the photograph. A game, then; the perverse humour couldn't indicate anything else.

Perfect.

*

There is a vindication in the choice of Carl Powers. Sherlock wonders, absently, privately, if this is some sort of token on behalf of her opponent. An enticement, perhaps; _look, I've given you something, now play the game._ If so, she's only too happy to accept.

Molly comes in as Sherlock examines the shoes, distant static registering on the edge of her awareness. Joan deals with her. A man enters, and she glances up. He registers no more than Molly does, beyond being new and therefore requiring an extra second or two of observation.

"Gay," she mutters, just loud enough for Molly to hear. It's written all over him, the self-conscious decision to touch Molly he's undertaking, clearly forced, the attempt at restraining his grooming out of paranoia she'll suspect something, the way he's been so unsuccessful at it; her suspicions are confirmed when he refuses to respond to it, though she can tell he heard. Doesn't want Molly to pay any attention. A straight man looking like he does would be far more likely to go on the defensive.

Molly looks panicked, then disbelieving. _Thought I meant her. Hm._

"So you're Sherlock Holmes," he continues, and Sherlock is struck by how his voice seems to ooze into her mind. It's incredibly irritating. "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases, then?"

"Jim's from IT," Molly interrupts, providing Sherlock with details she has no need of. They're deleted before they even settle in.

Her silence continues until finally, the man moves off.

"It was nice meeting you."

She doesn't acknowledge him at all. Just another blip in the pursuit of matters that actually merit her attention. Her responses to Molly's anger- _He's not gay, we're together-_ are equally dismissive. (She'll get over it, Sherlock thinks. Joan looks at her with disappointment, but Sherlock means it when she points out that it's quicker and easier this way. Heaven knows that Molly heartbroken would be far more difficult to deal with if the relationship progressed for any length of time.)

*

Later, Sherlock will not be able to look back at this scene with any clarity. It will be supposition and doubt and assumption borne of her ignoring it so thoroughly, and Sherlock will detest Jim Moriarty a little for inducing that with his little act.

*

The high of solving the Carl Powers incident is excellent. Sherlock isn't disappointed in the slightest to hear the next set of pips play, is already settled into the rules and regulations of this game. The end is a long way off yet. She doesn't mind at all.

This time she puts on faces to get what she wants; the teary friend commiserating with a wife, playing on jealousy at the hint of a past containing something more with the man to evoke reaction. The faintly naive woman feigning an interest in cars for Mr. Monkford, plucking data from his unknowing hands as he talks. It's electrifying. She's almost disappointed at the hint she's given not long afterwards. Sherlock knows, with a bone-deep certainty, it wasn't necessary. She knows what Janus means. Perhaps that was the point, her faceless antagonist wanting to turn any victory just faintly sour in her mouth.

Doesn't matter. She reels her facts off anyway, walks off with Joan at her side and heat running through her veins, triumphant and anticipating.

*

Next time, the old lady dies. Sherlock hears the precise moment when the phone cuts out and finds herself speechless.

The rug is being pulled out more rapidly each instance. The hint, and now this. Planned or not, it stings.

Joan is disappointed at Sherlock's coldness. That stings as well, if only because Sherlock had thought Joan _understood._ Even Mycroft has spent her life waiting for a hint she cares, even if he tries not to. All the blatant rejection of femininity, sentiment, feelings in the world can't erase that niggling little thought in the back of a person's mind when she speaks that there's something just not _right_ about it. About her.

(It always came easier to Mycroft. Either the pretending to care or the not having to, she's not sure which and she's not even sure it matters.)

There's a kind of sadness in Joan's eyes, the sort of disappointment that doesn't need to be said. But she does still come along to the next one, so perhaps Joan can be taught after all.

*

Sherlock coasts through the proceeding puzzle on a feeling of anticipation. Even the final countdown doesn't quite distract her from the thought that it's what she has to _come_ that really matters.

Moriarty.

She's ready.

*

When she thinks it through, the matter seems absurdly simple.

Sherlock almost berates herself for not seeing it sooner, in fact, though her reason tells her that it's a waste of time to do so. The plans she had sent Joan after in a fit of pique are infinitely more valuable to somebody so interested in _distractions_ than a painting and the money it's worth, or some commonplace, seedy little murders. The longer she allows the matter to turn over in her mind the more convinced she becomes until finally she sends Joan away, taps out a brief message, and gathers herself to go and find her new 'friend'.

(In her mind, the air quotes aren't quite there. Really, friendship is based on commonalities, isn't it? The two of them have enough of those to be getting on with, certainly.)

The pool is cloying and over-warm and not all that familiar; the scene had never been of nearly as much interest as the shoes had, and apparently she had therefore not bothered to commit it to memory in any meaningful way. It still feels a little like coming home, even so, just through the awareness that this is, in a way, her birthplace.

The USB drive is slightly clammy between her fingers when she holds it up. "Brought you a little getting to know you present," she comments to the room at large. No doubt they're already here, and besides, if they hadn't predicted that she'd pick this place and prepared ahead of time accordingly then she'll be disappointed indeed.

"That's what all this has been for, hasn't it," she continues, statement rather than question. This is child's play, this is the curtain call, the wrap-up. Sherlock loves this part of things more than any other, she thinks. When everything is just close enough that she can feel anticipation working its way down her spine and up into her chest, heart hammering, eyes darting- but still not quite, quite done. Still something to do.

She doesn't want it to end.

Then Joan walks out.

"Evening. This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

The syllable is calm and level and so unlike Joan that it makes everything in Sherlock's head stutter for a moment. "Joan, what-"

Stop. Rewind. Something's wrong with this picture.

"Bet you never saw this coming."

Joan's hands go to her coat. Completely steady, but eyes blinking uncharacteristically and-

Ah.

"What would you like me... to make her say... next?"

Sherlock's mind roars back into gear as she turns around, eyes cataloguing without really registering- she glances towards the spot the sight glowing red on Joan's chest leads to but the space is dark. If there's somebody there, they're really very good. Of course. Moriarty, no doubt, wouldn't settle for less.

"-gottle of gear," says Joan, voice breaking faintly on the final sound. The surprise of it brings Sherlock's head back around. Of course; that's what seems so wrong about this picture, she thinks, Joan sounds afraid and looks it, too. Not like the case at the bank, either. That had been tinged with relief, once Sherlock had shown up. This is Joan drawing herself inward, tense and brittle and hyper-alert like Sherlock has never seen her. This is Joan preparing for the worst like the soldier she is, has _always_ been, even if it hasn't broken the surface since Sherlock met her.

Sherlock has a sudden desperate wish that she were in the frame of mind to appreciate it. She thinks she likes this Joan Watson.

"Stop it," she says aloud to the room at large, voice too loud.

"Nice touch, this," Joan continues- no, not Joan, it doesn't even really sound like Joan. Moriarty, then. "The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop Joan Watson, too. Stop her... heart."

"Who are you?"

The sound of a door opening seems to drag her head around of its own accord.

"I gave you plenty to go on," comes the almost conversational, painfully familiar voice. "I'm a little bit disappointed in you, really, sweetheart."

Scratch conversational: replace with cloying, the term of endearment calculated to be as irritating as possible. The man who steps out to accompany the words is just as painfully familiar, albeit wrapped in a different packaging than the last time she'd seen him. He doesn't look at her as he walks out, glances out to the side, head tilting in a way that reminds her of a reptile eyeing someone through its tank.

Before she even really thinks about it, her hand goes for the gun. His eyes finally meet hers and he smiles. Sherlock realises that she has no idea how sincere it is and, for the first time, feels a nudge of fear begin at the base of her spine.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi," he trills, and at her refusal to respond beyond a tightening of her hand around the pistol, affects a look of disappointment. "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Did I really make such a fleeting impression? Though that was rather the _point._ Don't be silly," he adds after Sherlock glances to Joan, "-someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

Of course. It's been less than three minutes and Sherlock can already see what kind of persona this man has built for himself. The suit and the effeminacy and the lilting voice, all even more telling than those puzzles she had enjoyed so much, in their own way. He wants to be the kind of person to be observed and talked to, the kind of person to sit in his suit and remind everyone with every gesture that a gun isn't necessary to threaten people.

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teeny glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world," he continues, and Sherlock suddenly feels profoundly irritated at just how fond he is of his own voice. "I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."

"Jim, will you fix it for me," she says, and when she breathes, "Brilliant," she means it. 'Like you', indeed. There's plenty to recognise in the man stood across from her, even under all the surface differences; he's crisper and cleaner and just a little slicker, but underneath, she can see it in his eyes. Both of them have been waiting for this, and neither of them quite wants it to end.

And yet. Joan flicks her eyes over, just for an instant.

"No one ever gets to me... and no one ever will."

"I did," Sherlock retorts, certain. Joan has a laser on her chest but Sherlock has a gun pointed at his, and stalemates don't last forever.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Yeah okay, I did."

Meaningless. Empty words, echoing around the pool, just filler until the both of them choose their next move. Moriarty begins to walk towards her and she knows this part's coming to an end; he moves languidly but she can sense the purpose behind it.

"The flirting's over, Sherlock," he all but sings. Her hackles go up even though she _knows_ why he's doing it, knows it's just another tactic to unsettle her. "Daddy's had enough, now." Textbook, simple, playing on her gender and his to make things seem just faintly off, too close, too intimate. No doubt trying to make a point about that scene at the lab, as well- _playing gay. I got it past you, didn't I. Look how clever I am._ She tells herself it doesn't work. Then she stops, because this isn't the time for denial of the obvious, and instead tells herself to stop caring.

(Unbidden, she remembers a police officer towards the end of her attempt to make them see about Carl Powers- _leave this to the men, sweetheart_. There's a sudden flash of envy when she realises that at the same age, Jim Moriarty had experienced no difficulty on _his_ end of the game.)

There's more to his ramble, but Sherlock finds her eyes drawn to Joan as Moriarty approaches her and suddenly what he's saying is far less interesting than the threat his presence so close to the other woman is. He practically leers when he leans in, and Sherlock swears that she and Joan stiffen at exactly the same time. "Are you all right?" she asks. Woefully inadequate, but suddenly she needs to hear Joan's voice almost as much as she needs that leer away from her.

But no. Joan simply nods, efficient and terse. At least she does that much.

Back and forth. Back and forth. _That's what people DO,_ her hand tightening on the grip so hard the faint creak of plastic is audible, Joan's breathing quickening each second, magnified by the pool's echo. Sherlock offers him the plans and he throws them away. _Pointless._ He hadn't been distracting her, she realises. Not really. Just another way to tug her strings.

A fraction of a second before Joan actually moves, Sherlock can see her gearing up to move, ready to spring forward. Even with that extra moment to prepare she's frozen in place the moment it actually happens, and the look on Jim Moriarty's face tells her that she needn't change that. Sherlock can't see the dot on her forehead but she can see Joan's eyes tracking it, can see the dull resignation fighting with instinctive panic when she lets go.

And so Jim gets to walk free.

Her hands grab at the bomb on Joan's chest before the door is even shut. She had been tense, Sherlock registers, hadn't even noticed it until her limbs begin to shake the energy free. Her legs won't stay still, and suddenly she becomes aware that she's speaking, some nonsense about _good, that was good_ , as though Joan Watson could be contained in a word like _good_.

"Please don't tell anyone about this," she gets in reply with a shaky smile, "twice in as many months, I'll get a reputation as a damsel in distress."

*

Of course, Jim is like her. Desire for the last word and all. It shouldn't be surprising when he walks back in and waits for her to aim the gun.

Her hand is steady.

**Author's Note:**

> As a final note, this is less an exercise in any originality (I'm not that dishonest) and more a look at how the characters look different even when really, they're the same beyond the gender alterations. This Sherlock isn't so different from the Sherlock I normally write, but I found it interesting how different she *seemed* just because characters like that are so rarely female. If nothing else, this was at least fun to do. I hope it was somewhat entertaining through my blatant self-indulgence!
> 
> Title, by the way, is from Carmen by Lana Del Rey.


End file.
